


In which John is in Sherlock's bed, naked.

by slytherdor



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Bees, Fluff, M/M, Trippy John, cocain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:36:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherdor/pseuds/slytherdor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is attacked, Sherlock gives him drugs, Mycroft ruins a moment, Lestrade is kidnapped, Kate is angry, Irene comes back, John and Sherlock go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which John is in Sherlock's bed, naked.

Sherlock hears John's tread on the stairs. His limp is coming back, but that's normal. They haven't had a case for weeks. Hang on, he thinks. John is going very, very slowly. John is also limping on the wrong leg. Sherlock can hear Mrs Hudson open her door. He also hears her wordless exclamation. Thrusting the newspaper that he wasn't really reading aside, Sherlock runs to the door and flings it open.  
Standing there, with snow in this hair and on the lapel of his jacket is John.

John Watson is shivering. He's limping on the wrong leg. His teeth are chattering. His knees are quivering. Within a few minutes, John has been carried inside by Sherlock and is lying on the sofa with his feet propped up.  
'John, I'm going to take your pants off. Is that okay?' John manages to nod and Sherlock eases down his pants, uncovering a pair of firetruck red underwear and a knee that has swollen up to the size of a tennis ball.

From the look of it, John's knee has been smashed sideways with an American baseball bat. The swelling indicates that nothing is broken but something is strained and out of place. Oh god, John's knee has been dislocated. Sherlock is gripped by something. His temperature seems to increase by .3 of a degree. His hands ball themselves into fists. He can tell that his pupils have dilated. This is rage, he realizes. He is furious.

Whoever did this to John was going to pay. Why would someone attack John? John is kind and caring and nearly harmless. He's loyal and friendly and rugged - Rugged? Where did that come from? Sherlock focuses. John's knee.  
'John? I need to relocate your knee. Do you trust me?' John lifts his head, despite what is costs him.  
'With my life, Sherlock.' Sherlock thinks his heart actually, physically skips a beat. John trusts him with his life. Was that because...

FOCUS, DAMNIT, he thinks. Taking John's calf in one leg and his thigh in the other, Sherlock slowly begins to twist, but he has to stop. John lets out a strangled gasp and stiffs his fist in his mouth. This isn't going to work. Sherlock can't bring himself to hurt him. An idea pops into his head. Heroin is an opiate. Technically a depressant. An incredibly powerful painkiller.  
'Two seconds John. Do you still trust me?' Again, John nods. Sherlock starts to rifle through the fireplace.

He finds the loose brick and tugs on it. Inside, he pulls out a small tin. Sherlock opens the tin, revealing a small needle and a glass bottle filled with a clear liquid.  
'SHERLOCK!' gasps Mrs Hudson.  
'Mrs Hudson, it's okay. It's for John.'  
'No it most certainly not okay! Storing something like that in my house!'  
'Please Mrs Hudson. Please. For John.' Something in Sherlock's voice and the look on his face tells Mrs Hudson that she needs to let him do this.

He half fills that syringe from the bottle and John looks up at him.  
'Sherlock, where did you get that?'  
'It's been here the whole time.' Sherlock's voice is tight.

Sherlock steels himself.  
'I don't want to hurt you, John. I... I can't.' John lets his head fall back. Sherlock taps the needle to send air bubbles to the top and slowly injects John with the drug. It'll take a few minutes to set in.

Sherlock starts putting together the things that will lead him to John's attacker. Carries a baseball bat, most probably American. Knew exactly where to hit, someone medical. The snow, John had walked a long way very slowly (obviously).  
Where was John today? He was meant to be attending a wedding. Hmm. No tuxedo, not even a suit. His hair is mussed. Didn't make it to the wedding then.

'Sher... Sherlock. You're blurry.' Sherlock looks at John, confused. The he laughs.  
He stands up and takes John's leg in his hands again. He starts to twist but he has to stop. 

John jerks.  
John starts to giggle.  
Sherlock stars dumbfounded at his partner's face.  
'That... Tha' tickles Sherlock...' Sherlock starts to chuckle. He takes advantage of the moment to pop John's knee back into place. 

There's an audible pop and Sherlock shudders. John loses himself to the fit of drowsy giggles that has overtaken him.  
Sherlock suddenly notices how red John's face is. He starts to laugh too. Soon, they're both sitting on the couch, crying with laughter.  
John is leaning on Sherlock's shoulder with his arms around the taller mans waist. Sherlock lets John's head rest in the hollow of his throat and wraps his arm around John's shoulders. 

It comes to an abrupt stop for Sherlock when there's a knock on the door. 

'Sherlock? John? Can I come in?'  
Oh god.  
Oh no.  
Oh shit. 

Mycroft.

'Two minutes Mycroft!' Sherlock calls, he can practically see Mycroft take out his pocket watch and start counting. 

'John? John, we need to get you to bed.'  
'Your bed. I like your bed better. I sleep there when you're not here...' John slurs. He nuzzles Sherlock's neck.  
'Okay,' says Sherlock, pushing back the thoughts that come unbidden into his head, 'Well, lets go there now.' He picks John up like a baby, and John responds like one. He wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck and allows himself to be carried. 30 seconds gone.  
Shit.

John happily lies down in Sherlock's bed, seemingly at home there. He sheds his shirt before Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock is shocked. Okay. So. John Watson is sleeping in my bed. In nothing but his red underwear. Okay. Well. 

FOCUS.  
MYCROFT. He runs back to the living room and barely has time to put the false brick back into place before Mycroft lets himself into the room.

'Good afternoon Sherlock.'  
'Mycroft.' Sherlock plonks himself down on the sofa and steeples his fingers again. It's a neutral position, one Mycroft can't read well. Its nearly safe.  
'So what is there in your fireplace that you don't want me seeing?'  
Shit.  
'What on earth gives you that idea?'  
'The ash on your trousers.'  
Shit. Stupid, stupid, stupid.  
'I was just messing around with John.'  
'And where is John now?'  
'In bed. Sleeping.'  
'Who's bed? Why?'  
'Don't bother Mycroft. You saw him attacked.'  
'I did yes. That's why I'm here.'  
'Well he's fine. He's sleeping. I fixed his knee.'  
'Good.'  
'Okay. So why are you still here?'  
'I was just dropping by to -'  
'Sherlooock.'  
Shit. Mycroft arches his eyebrow.  
'Pardon?'  
'Nothing. Goodbye Mycroft.' says Sherlock shortly and storms off to his room.  
Well shit.

John is rolling around on the bed like a piglet in some mud. Sherlock stops in the doorway.  
'Sherlooock. The bees are cute, I just want to hold them. Come here, I want to hold you too.' John is still slurring, he's obviously on the verge of sleep.  
Dear god, Sherlock thinks. I hope Mycroft is gone. He crosses to the bed and just before his shins hit the frame, John's hand snatches out and pulls him in by the collar. Sherlock lands with one hand on either side of John's head. John smiles.  
'You're cute. Like a bee, except longer.'

Sherlock suddenly remembers that John is almost not wearing any clothes. Oh god.  
Sherlock then spots something red in the corner of his vision. John's red underwear are hanging from Sherlock's bed head. Sherlock's eyes widen. Okay. I am separated from naked John by a sheet.  
Oh my. Mycroft chooses that moment to stick his head in the doorway.  
'I'm off, Sher...' Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut.  
Well shit.

'Sherlock... Why is John naked in your bed?'  
'Because John wanted to be naked in my bed. Is there a problem, Mycroft? No? Good. Goodbye Mycroft.'  
'Sherlock. John is obviously under the influence of narcotics.'  
Shit.  
'Mycroft. I had to fix his knee and I... I couldn't hurt him.'  
'Mycroft doesn't look like a long bee. Mycroft looks like a fat fox.'  
'Sherlock. You said you didn't take them any more.'  
'I don't. I keep them for emergencies and experiments.'  
'And which is this?'  
'Both.'  
'Right. Well, I'll leave you to it then. I shall be watching very closely from now on.' 

With that, Mycroft shut the door and left. Sherlock's eyes returned to John. John's eyes were already trained on Sherlock.  
'Sherlock.'  
'John.'  
'I don't think that you should be wearing as many clothes as you are.'  
Well.  
Naked John is complaining about Sherlock's clothes.

Sherlock rolls so that he is no longer hovering over John. John rolls so that he is nose to nose with Sherlock.  
'How do you feel John?'  
'My head feels furry and the colours are all everywhere.'  
Well. That's understandable. Naked John is on hero- When did he become naked John in my mind? Thinks Sherlock.  
'Do you remember anything about the attacker? Where did it happen? John?'  
John had already fallen asleep with his arms locked around Sherlock's neck.

It's night-time when John and Sherlock finally stir. John groans and Sherlock's eyes shoot open. Neither of them have moved. John is still cradled in Sherlock's arms.  
'Sherlock?' John's voice is low and husky from sleep. Oh god.  
'John. How are you feeling?'  
'I feel as though it's my head that got hit.'  
'Yes, that'll be the uh...'  
'Oh dear.' Says John. He squeezes his eyes shut.  
'Was Mycroft really here?'  
'Well... Yes.' John hasn't realized the position they're in yet. Nor that he is naked.

Sherlock decides for purely sefish reasons (the fact that John is covered only by a sheet from his hips down and he still has an army physique) to not remind him of this.  
'John, I need you to tell me everything about your attacker.' Never mind that Sherlock's hands are touching John's bare back. Never mind that John has buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck. Never mind that they're separated by nothing but a sheet and Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock had shed his other clothes before they went to sleep. Sherlock decides to shut his eyes and focus on the case, not on the feel of John's...  
FOCUS ON THE CASE, DAMNIT.

John begins to talk, still not noticing his surroundings. So unobservant.  
'Well, I had got out of a cab near Paddington street station to pick up my suit. I was at the end of the street when Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and the next thing I knew was that someone had done something to my knee and I had fallen to the ground. It was about six A.M so no one saw. It wasn't too bad, could walk on it. It's only when I started on the stairs here that it really started to hurt. He was taller than me, had dark hair and ran with more pressure on his right foot. He had a mustache and afterwards, he got into a blue Audi and drove off. That's all I remember.'  
'Good. What do you remember after getting back here?'  
'I remember pain and then you gave me... Heroin? And then Mycroft... And bees and your bed and - '  
John stops dead. He is not moving a muscle. He brings his head out from the crook of Sherlock's neck and looks straight into Sherlock's eyes.

'I'm not wearing any clothes. You're only wearing your trousers.'  
Sherlock tries to look indifferent. He fails.  
'Yes.'  
'Right. And... Mycroft?'  
'Is not under the impression that we're... An item.' Sherlock is very bad at this.  
What is this feeling in the pit of his stomach? It feels a though someone has removed his intestines and there's just air. He desperately hopes John doesn't want to move.  
'Is this... Too...' John starts.  
'No. I don't think so. Although I do hate lying to Mycroft.'

'He always figures it out in the end.'  
'So... What does this mean? For us?' Sherlock presses his hands into John's back. John replaces his head under Sherlock's chin. They don't need to say it. They both know what it means.  
'John. You are to stay in bed.' says Sherlock, disentangling his limbs.  
'I'll get Mrs Hudson to check on you and bring you some food. I have an American to stalk.' John is lying face down on the bed. The sheet has slipped to the top of his thighs.  
Oh.  
Oh sweet syrupy Jesus.  
John has a fantastic arse.  
John has a very toned arse.  
Sherlock is staring at John's arse.  
Sherlock realizes that he is very, very okay with this.

Sherlock is halfway through putting his arms through his shirt and has to remind himself to keep moving. He has always prided himself on his knowledge of human anatomy, and his ability to think of it as JUST the human anatomy.  
But, John's arse is staring him in the face. This isn't A set of buttocks or A body. This is John's arse.  
FOCUS. MOVE. STOP STARING.  
Sherlock finishes dressing and adds his coat and scarf. 'Sherlock, were you looking at my arse?'  
Sherlock feels a grin spreading over his face.  
'Yes.'  
'Oh. Okay.'  
Sherlock can hear the smile in John's voice.  
'Please be careful.'  
'Of course, John.' Sherlock smiles.

Sherlock arrives at Paddington street station just after 10 pm. He pays the cabbie and starts down the street to the suit shop. Just as he reaches the corner, something catches his eye.  
A blue Audi is stopped on the curb. He hears the whistle of a large object slicing through the air with a lot of force and turns just as the baseball bat is flying towards his face. He catches it in one hand and breaks the mans wrist with the other. Sherlock pushes him up against the wall of the nearest shop with the bat restricting his air flow. There's that feeling again. Rage.  
Sherlock can feel it bubbling up inside him. 

'Who. Are. You.' he spits at the man. Sherlock uses the flat of his palm to strike the man's ear, rendering him partially deaf and in severe pain.  
'Who. Are. You. Why did you attack Jo- Doctor Watson?' The man has the gall to laugh.  
'I'm no one. I attacked John Watson so that you would come looking for me. I have a message from Lestrade.' Sherlock is thoroughly confused.  
'Greg says; Help.'

Sherlock stops for a moment. Lestrade is in trouble? Not John? Oh.  
'Where is he?' snaps Sherlock.  
'The person with him gives you a clue. He says "Weddings are great, if you get to them." Sherlock suddenly feels a whoosh of air past his cheek. He looks back at the man only to discover that there is a syringe sticking out from his neck and he's foaming from the mouth. Sherlock steps back, letting the man slide down the wall. He hears an engine start up and turns to see the Audi drive away.

Sherlock takes off after it. It drives to the end of the street when the man behind the wheel leaves it and gets into a new car, a green Mazda, and it drives off too. This goes on for an hour and a half. Sherlock chases the cars - a red Honda, a yellow Porsche and finally a white Rolls Royce - that ends up at a church.  
St John's Church. The church John was meant to be attending a wedding at. Sherlock peers through the open door.  
There are three people inside. None of whom are Greg Lestrade.

Sherlock sidles in the door, attempting not to be noticed. It doesn't work. One of the three people in the church turns around.  
'Greg says - ' The church bells begin to ring at that point, the man smiles and points up. Sherlock runs to the stairs. Thundering up them three at a time is an easy task for his long legs, but there are a lot of them. By the time he's reached the top, Sherlock is panting and his knees are weak.  
He spots Lestrade sitting in a chair directly next to the bell, which isn't ringing anymore.

Upon reaching the chair, Sherlock sees that Lestrade is tied to it. His fingers make quick work of the knots and Greg Lestrade falls forwards into his arms. Sherlock gets out his phone.  
'Sally. ambulance to St John's church. Quickly.' He hangs up.  
Sherlock helps the other man slowly down the 207 stairs and into the waiting hands of the paramedics.

Sherlock sits on the stone steps of the church and steeples his fingers. What was the point of this? Nothing adds up. His phone starts ringing. Unknown number.  
'Hello?'  
'Sherlock.'  
'John?'  
'Yes.'  
'What's wrong, John?'  
'You fell for a distraction. You killed my Irene, I've taken your John.'  
The phone goes dead.

There it is again. Rage. How could he have been such an idiot. So, so stupid.  
John.  
Oh shit. John.  
My Irene? He'd said 'My Irene'  
Who was close to Irene? Who would've... Kate. Irene's 'Personal Assistant'.  
No one but Sherlock knew that Irene was still alive. Not even John or Kate.  
Shit.

Sherlock remembers the emergency contact for Irene Adler.  
'Don't use it unless it's a matter of life and death.' She had said. This was most certainly that matter. Sherlock punched in the numbers.  
'Let's have dinner' is the answer that greets him, in a playful voice.  
'Let's find Kate. She thinks I killed you and she's taken John.' Irene's voice changes.  
She recognizes the danger. She's appalled at Kate's actions.  
'Where are you now?'  
'I've settled in New York.'  
'Find Kate. Now.'

Sherlock catches a cab to the Yard. They find Kate. Sherlock can't think about anything but John. He's going to find them. He will.  
Irene had better hurry up. He climbs into another cab with an address in Surrey. He arrives at the Quarterdeck and goes into a small flat, similar in style to Irene's old place.  
He doesn't bother with the door. He slips in through the back window which is open. He finds himself at the wrong end of a gun barrel, staring at John who looks to be in significant pain.

'Have a seat, Mr Holmes.' Sherlock takes the wooden chair next to John.  
He puts his hand on John's thigh in a comforting gesture. Kate smiles.  
'Ah, so your relationship with John is more similar to mine and Irene's than I thought. Wonderful.' Sherlock hears the well-concealed hitch in her throat at the sound of The Woman's name.  
'Kate, listen. I-' Sherlock is interrupted with a sharp cry from John. Kate has her hand on John's other knee. The injured one. She has two fingers dug under his kneecap.

Kate is smiling wickedly.  
'Uh uh. Silly Sherlock. No need to explain. It was you who got her... Killed. I practically watched.' Tears begin to flood her eyes.  
'Now you're going to watch as the only thing that matters to you is torn away.' She squeezes John's knee again and Sherlock watches and John lets out a hiss and his other leg stretches out. Sherlock gives his thigh a squeeze.  
Three things happen at once.  
Their names are Irene Adler, Mycroft Homes and Greg Lestrade.  
Kate freezes.

Ms Adler climbs through the window just as Lestrade bursts through the door and Mycroft follows him in. The small room is very suddenly crowded.  
'I... Irene? How... But what...' She looks at Sherlock who tries his best to look apologetic.  
It matches the look on Irene's face. Mycroft looks relieved and Lestrade looks exhausted. Everyone tries to talk at once.

John starts with 'Oh fuck. Oh fuck ow. Sherlock-'  
Sherlock starts with 'John, we'll get you to a hospital. Greg, what are you doing here? You should be-'  
Mycroft starts with 'Ms Adler! What a surprise!' before shooting a disapproving glance at Sherlock.  
Lestrade starts with 'Oh thank God we found you - ' 

Kate just stands there, shocked. Everyone stops. The entire room is suddenly enveloped in a fit of laughter from every person in the room.

Hugs were exchanged, apologies were given, promises were made (especially about Irene's being alive) and soon, Sherlock was in a cab with John's head in his lap. John had refused a hospital, saying that he could take perfectly good care of himself and that Sherlock has - painkillers - at his house.  
That earned the pair a frown from Mycroft. 

When they reached 221B Baker street, Sherlock carried John up the stairs for the second time in 24 hours. John insisted on being put in Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock undressed John carefully, leaving him in his underwear before doing the same for himself. He climbed under the covers and found himself in the same position, with John's arms around his neck, as he was before he left.  
'What'll happen to Kate?' asked John.  
'She'll probably go free. She'll probably go and be with Irene wherever they decide to go.'  
'And where does that leave us?'  
Sherlock kisses the top of John's head without even thinking about it.  



End file.
